


The Darkest Night

by Nopride4531



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Pro-Railroad ending, SPOILERS FOR ALL ASPECTS OF THE GAME, Seriously though: MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE ENDING
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-10 22:12:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5602858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nopride4531/pseuds/Nopride4531
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Deacon could see her trembling, could see the indecision in her posture, and suddenly knew what he had to do.'</p>
<p>Or, the one where the Sole Survivor can't go through with the Railroad's plan on her own and needs a little help from a certain spy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Darkest Night

_ *Detonation Site, 11:45 PM* _

The teleportation went about as smoothly as Deacon expected.  

It was a strange experience, to say the least, strange in the aspect that they were in the Institute one moment and at the detonation site the next.  He'd never experienced anything quite like it and had to say that it was... exhilarating.  The science behind it was foreign to him (was more so Tinker Tom's domain), but he couldn't complain.  It had worked, and that was all Deacon could ask for.  

He'd been one of the first people teleported out of the Institute, much to his chagrin.  It had nothing to do with him not wanting to leave—the sooner everyone got out, the better—and everything to do with the fact that _she_  wasn't at the telepad yet.  The woman that made the entire operation possible.  The Professor.  

_._

_._

_._

_*Institute, 11:30 PM*_

_"_ _Where is she?"_   _He all but demanded when Desdemona raced to the central controls, where Tom was busy calibrating the telepad._   _"The Professor?"_

_He would never forget how his boss' eyes widened, would never forget how quickly she spun around to stare at the empty space behind her._

_"She was following me,"_   _she explained, struggling hard to keep the fearful tremor from her voice—and failing._   _"I thought—"_

_"You_ thought?" _Deacon felt the icy claws of fear clutch his heart and was suddenly grateful for his sunglasses, grateful that neither Des nor Tom could see the terror in his eyes.  "The hell's_ that _supposed to mean?"_

_"Watch it," Desdemona snapped, turning to glare at him.  "I'm sure she'll be here soon.  Right now, we need to focus on getting our wounded out."  She directed her attention to Tom.  "How long before we're ready?"_

_The tinkerer typed furiously at the terminal, his fingers flying across the keyboard.  "We're ready now!" He exclaimed, never taking his eyes off of the screen.  "Get 'em on the platform!"_

_Des didn't need to be told twice, racing over to the closest agent who couldn't stand on his own and dragging him to the telepad.  A smeared trail of blood followed them like a gory river.  Deacon couldn't bring himself to care, all of his focus fixed on the hall that led into the teleportation room.  He stood there in half of a daze, waiting for the Professor to come running through, Coursers and other synths chasing after her like hounds.  His fingers were poised on the trigger of his rifle, ready to shoot at a moment's notice, and he lifted it to his shoulder, waiting, waiting._

_Time ticked by slowly—unbelievably slowly—and still no Professor.  Chills whispered down Deacon's spine as he stared at the empty elevator, barely hearing Desdemona's exhausted grunt as she pulled the last wounded agent on to the telepad.  He never turned around, never divided his attention for a second.  Only when Des placed a gentle hand on his shoulder did he dare to blink._

_"Deacon," she softly addressed and he reluctantly glanced over at her, the action hidden by his glasses.  She knew, however. She_ _always knew.  "I need you to go with our wounded to the detonation site."_

_He shook his head.  "The Professor—"_

_"Will be fine." His boss' grip on his shoulder tightened.  "I'm worried about her too, but she would want everyone to be safe, not waiting up for her." The corners of her mouth twitched into a small smile.  "I'll stay here for as long as I can, but only if you go.  Now."_

_He wanted to protest, wanted to more than ever, but he could see the truth behind Desdemona's statement.  With a heavy sigh, Deacon lowered his rifle and made his way over to the telepad, each step seeming leaden, wrong.  Tom nodded at him as he passed and then told him to stand still; the ride would probably be a little discomforting._

_"Once you're there, tend to the hurt as best you can," Des commanded, though Deacon could clearly see through her calm facade.  "We'll follow soon."_

Soon, _he thought, barely managing to resist a scowl._ But who do you mean by 'we?'

_"Yeah," he murmured instead and then called out louder: "See you on the other side."_

_._

_._

_._

_ *Detonation Site, 12:00 AM* _

Fifteen minutes.  That was how long ago he'd been teleported out of the Institute.  Fifteen minutes and still no Professor or Desdemona.  

The moon was at its peak in the sky, stars twinkling around it like gems.  The small group of Railroad agents—and a few others who weren't necessarily part of the team—were far away enough from the light pollution of Diamond City that they could see each star as it shone.  At one time, Deacon had known most of the constellations, though he couldn't remember who'd taught him—probably wasn't someone important.  Now, he could only make out Orion from the rest, the signature belt catching his eye before he even knew what was happening.  He didn't know why that constellation stuck with him more than the others.  Maybe, on some twisted level, he could relate to the hunter.  

Or maybe crashing the Institute had fried his brain.  

Yeah.  That was it.  

"Troubled minds project, you know."

He half turned at the sound of Valentine's voice, internally berating himself for allowing the synth—or anyone for that matter—to detect his emotions.  With a sigh, he looked over at Nick, taking note of his relaxed posture, and then glanced at the ground, the action hidden behind his dark glasses.  

"My mind's not 'troubled,'" he muttered and preoccupied himself with inspecting his rifle, not needing to look at Valentine to know that he was shaking his head.  

"I've been a detective a long time, son," the synth responded easily.  "In my line of work, you learn to read people and to do it  _well_."

Deacon scowled.  "Ever heard of being  _wrong_ , Nick?"

"Yeah, but not about this."

The Railroad spy rolled his eyes and reluctantly turned to completely face Valentine.  "Okay!" He exclaimed, throwing his rifle to the floor, ignoring the startled stares of the agents around him.  "Maybe my mind  _is_ troubled, but what's it to you?"

To his credit, the synth didn't flinch and when he next spoke, his voice was soft: "Friends look after one another."

Deacon's scowl deepened.  "I wasn't aware we  _were_ friends, Nicky."

"Maybe not directly, but we're both friends with Rose... or  _the Professor_ , as you call her."

The spy felt himself freeze.   _Rose_.  So  _that_ was her real name. 

"Well, you're not wrong," he begrudgingly admitted, though he hid his surprise at the revelation well.  "What do you want?"

Nick sighed, the huff of air clouding in the freezing atmosphere, and took a few steps closer to him.  There was a hint of caution in his posture, one that Deacon picked up on fairly quickly; it felt like Valentine was approaching an enraged radstag and Deacon relaxed his shoulders, not wanting to give off the 'frightened animal' vibe.  

"I'm alright, Nick," he muttered, releasing a deep breath.  "I'm fine."

The synth chuckled.  "You're the epitome of it."

Pursing his lips, Deacon nodded and turned away.  This wasn't like him; this wasn't like him  _at all._  He didn't  _do_ worried or scared or, hell, even angry.  His composure was his mask, his best defense, but it was all going to hell because of  _her_ —Rose, the Professor—and Nick Valentine had figured it out in seconds.  

"It's okay," the detective finally assured, a small smile on his face.  "She'll be okay.  If the Commonwealth couldn't get her, nothing can."

"The Institute isn't the Commonwealth," Deacon fired back, but he could feel his tension and doubt easing.  "It's not—"

"— _the same_ ," Nick finished, holding his hand—or the metal skeleton of it—up.  "You're right about that.  But if I know Rose, then I know that she's better than anything the 'Wealth can produce... enough to take on the Institute."  He smiled again.  "So have some faith in her and for God's sake, don't give yourself a heart attack!  She needs  _someone_ to come back to."

Deacon opened his mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to agree; he didn't know—but before he could speak, there were two blinding flashes and the unmistakable sound of crackling energy.  By the time the white dots cleared from his vision, Desdemona and the Professor were standing in front of him, looking a little banged up, but undoubtedly _alive_.  Glancing over at Valentine, whose smug face clearly had  _'I told you so'_ written all over it, Deacon quickly wiped his features until they were neutral and forced himself into a casual stance; thankfully, relieved and relaxed look quite similar.  

" _Now_ it's a party!" He heard himself say, and then noticed that Tom wasn't anywhere in sight.  "Where's—"

"Back in HQ," Desdemona cut in with that calm voice of hers.  "He's fine."

Something in her tone suggested that there was more to the story than she was letting on, something that had to do with the Professor, and Deacon took a moment to assess Rose's appearance.  Flecks of drying blood—which he immediately determined were not hers—were spattered all over her leather-clad shoulder, signaling that one of her fights had been rather messy.  A light burn that must have come from one of the Institute rifles dusted the side of her neck.  He found himself wincing behind his glasses.  Burns were common when fighting with energy weapons, but that didn't make dealing with them any easier, and hers looked like it  _hurt_.  He didn't need to examine it closer to know that it was going to leave a nasty scar.  

All in all, however, she was relatively unharmed and he found himself thanking whatever God—if there even was one—that watched over her.  There was one problem, though, one thing that told him she wasn't quite alright: her eyes.  Not that they were physically damaged, but they had a hazy look in them, a look that he'd seen all too often in the Commonwealth, a look that he'd even worn himself.  Something had happened—something _bad_ —and he could only guess that it had everything to do with her son.  Shaun.  The leader of the Institute.

For once, he was speechless, and could only watch as Rose turned her back to everyone and walked over to the detonator, shaking slightly with each step.  There was an aura of dread radiating from her, a sense of brokenness.  Deacon couldn't _stand_ seeing it envelop her.  Not her.   _Never_ her.  

And then he understood.

Shaun was still in the Institute.  He would still _be_ in the Institute when it all went to hell.  Rose was going to lose her son.  

Deacon suddenly wanted to scream, to punch something or someone, beat them to a bloody pulp.  It wasn't fair.   _Nothing was fair._  Everything that the Professor had gone through—Vault 111, killing Kellogg, infiltrating the Institute—was all for nothing... and he hated it.  He hated the pre-war scum that had set all of this in motion in the first place with their goddamned nuclear bombs.  He hated Kellogg for killing Rose's husband and taking her baby.  He hated the Institute for corrupting that baby, turning him into the face of the monster.  It wasn't fair, it wasn't _fair_ ,  _it wasn't fucking fair!_

But he knew that nothing _ever_ was.  Another goddamned day in the Commonwealth.  

Shaking his head, he directed his attention back to Rose, who was still standing by the detonator, her hand frozen above the trigger.  Deacon could see her trembling, could see the indecision in her posture, and suddenly knew what he had to do.  With a quick glance at Nick, he walked over to the Professor until he was beside her, taking off his sunglasses along the way.  She jumped a little when she noticed him and he offered a small smile, hoping that it was as reassuring as he wanted.  Wrapping one arm around her waist and placing his other hand on top of hers, he waited.  

In the end, it wasn't him who pushed the button.  

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that you guys liked it!


End file.
